32 account shan't suffer from such mistakes, I can assure you." "But can you sell a thing like this? " asked my mother. "But can I? Do you think I'm going to keep it for the joy of it, or what? I shall clear five hundred pounds on this if I clear a penny." At this, my mother's lips started to tremble, and she raised her hands to her face and burst into tears. "For heaven's sake," said Uncle Frederick. "Here-take my hand- kerchief. Here, take it, you fool! And, Emma, whistle up some brandy if you can-do you hear?" " A ." . d E s you say, SIr, sal mma, leaving the room with her small step, which was high-spirited and yet controlled, like that of a circus horse. She did not speed up in the slightest degree; there was no up- setting Emma "I'll be all right in a minute," said my mother. "It's nothing, really." She spoke with difficulty through the handkerchief muffling her face. "Rot!" said Uncle Frederick. "Nobody weeps for nothing. Now, w hat bug has bItten you? " My mother gave a thorough rub to her eyes. She looked very young at thIS moment, like a child who has been told not to cry and who stops cry- ing in order to please the grownups. "I t' s Just silly," sh e said. "It's bound to be silly," said Uncle Frederick, "considering that it's some- thing to do with you. Now spit it out, for God's sake." "It's only that-" began my mother, and once more her lIps trembled and once more the tears rolled down her face ThIs time she seemed in still great- er despair, for she did not even trouble . h ff " I ' I " h . d to WIpe t em o. t s on y, s e sal , "that you are so clever and always on top of the world, and you can even get hold of a bad Renoir an d sell it, and I am so stupid and no good at all. And you make money all the time, because you know your way about, and I am nothIng and have nothing, and every bite of bread I eat is given me by Mama, and no matter where I am-here or in town or when I travel-it's still all on M ' " ama s money. "What's so dreadful about that?" asked Uncle Frederick "Women don't work and they don't make money. And if they do, they are ghastly battle-axes, and who wants to look at them, I ask you? And you are a goose, of course, but very pretty and all that sort of thIng, and nobody would want you any differ- en t." k.V "Do you really think so?" asked my mother. "If I didn't think so, would I say it? Do you think I'm a liar, or what?" My mother opened her tortoise-shell powder box and fluffed the swan's- down. She said, "You just get me down when you are here, making me feel so dreadful because you are so clever, but then when you are gone, I forget what you are like till the next time." "That's big of you," said Uncle Frederick. "Most obliged, I'm sure." But I could see by the way my mother was frowning and blinking and delay- ing the application of the powder to her face that she had not yet finished with her grievance. "You know, it's queer," she said "It always depresses me like this when I am staying here wIth Mama-about being useless and good for nothing, I mean. And it isn't Mama, of course, because she is always kind, and never a word of reproach that I am like a piece of lead around her neck, and don't think that I don't know it. But I walk all day through the rooms and through the park, and nobody takes any notice of me and nobody respects me. And if I ever wanta thing done, it is never done, and If I say something, it's like throw- ing a stone Into the pond-it just sinks down and is never seen again." "Well, what do you expect?" said Uncle Frederick. "Do you think the stone should jump out of the pond, or what? " "But you know what I mean?" asked my mother. "Ha," said Uncle Frederick. "Do you think I am a fool, or what? " "And what makes it so much worse," said my mother, "is that I watch Mama sitting there all day long looking like her own statue, and she never gets put out and she never makes a fuss, and all is done as she wants it, and I get hot and bothered and it never gets me any- where." "Once a goose always a goose,'" said Uncle Frederick. "If it is a consolation, let me tell you that Mama is just as inefficient as you are. And if you think that the servants do what she wants, then let me tell you you are barking up the wrong tree. It's only that she just sits tight and plays dead, the way beetles do, and gIves them or- ders that they have already carried out before she gave them-do you understand? And when I think of how she handles the grounds and the estate, I could weep like a dog when it's full moon. I could howl, I tell you!" Emma's dainty cough could be heard at the door, and we all turned round "Begging your pardon for being so long," she said, coming in with a bottle and two glasses on a tray. "But seeing that the cook holds the keys and she having gone to have her nap, I could " not manage sooner. One could depend on Emma. Of course, there was not a word of truth in what she said; she had been listening at the door and had chosen this moment for creating a break. "I don't want the brandy anyway," said my mother. "But I do, by God," said Uncle Frederick. "What is it, anyhow? Home-brewed elderberry, or what?" "It's an Armagnac, sIr-Clos des Dues." "Y ou amaze me," said Uncle Fred- erick. "And look here Emma, while you are about. This table wobbles, lIke all the things in this blasted place And for the time being I'll repair it-do you understand?" And he took out of his wallet a hundred-crown note, folded it four times, and pushed it under the base of the table. This was his way of giving a tip when he was in a good mood. -EDlfH TEMPLETON